


Masterpieces

by Emmeebee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, First War with Voldemort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Period-Typical Sexism, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 11:44:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4018501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmeebee/pseuds/Emmeebee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'It was an art form and he was the artist, carefully placing the paint where it had to go to achieve his ends.' Lucius Malfoy was raised to manipulate people; even in his darkest hours, he plots and plans for the future. A one-shot tracking Lucius' life from his arrival at Hogwarts to the end of the first wizarding war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masterpieces

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Harry Potter Day Competition 2015 for the Dark Lord and Co. Category and the "How Did You Even Do That?" Category.
> 
> My conception of Lucius is not a nice one. My conception of Death Eaters is even worse. This follows my version of Lucius from his first year of Hogwarts until Voldemort's fall, focusing primarily on his family life and his involvement with the Death Eaters. As such, it's rather dark. So, warnings: lots of casual sexism and a scene that depicts the lead up to a rape.
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful brother for beta reading this.

_**September 1966** _

Born into a rich and extremely influential pureblood family, Lucius Malfoy was raised to be shrewd and garner respect from an early age. Navigating the hazards of the political scene came easily for him, and so it came as a surprise to no one when he was, as was the tradition in his family, swiftly sorted into Slytherin. It would have been a travesty if the Sorting Hat had even momentarily _considered_ sorting him elsewhere. After the welcoming feast, he immediately went about currying favour from the older students and professors by, essentially, managing to give off the appearance of flattering people without ever actually doing so. It was an art form and he was the artist, carefully placing the paint where it had to go to achieve his ends.

His first Friday night at Hogwarts was the first time he heard word about the unnamed pureblood crusader fighting for pureblood rights. It had been a tiring few days for the new first years, but none of them liked the idea of retiring to bed; it was their first opportunity to stay up without jeopardising their performance in class the next day, and they all wanted to make use of it. After going upstairs together to put their schoolbags away, they collectively decided to stay in the common room to mingle for as long as they could stay awake.

"It will be a game of sorts," Rodolphus Lestrange said, "to see who can stay up the longest without making a fool of themselves." After all, even at that age they knew that making a fool out of oneself was much worse than bowing out early but gracefully.

Lucius wasn't fussed with Rodolphus' phrasing – the idea of it as a _game_ seemed juvenile to his self-impressed, mature eleven-year-old ears – but he appreciated the sentiment nevertheless.

All of them were exceedingly ambitious and, in this case, that incited intense competitiveness. They were all determined to win or, failing that, at the very least not be the first to lose. This was their first test against one another, the first indicator of who might eventually ascend to the position of leader of their little group; all twenty of them were desperate to prove themselves to each other and to the rest of their House.

Throughout the night, they socialised with one another and found excuses to converse with older students whenever they could feasibly manage it. Lucius was well aware that some of said students viewed their attempts with amusement; despite their attempts at subtlety, the first years were much less experienced at it than their older counterparts. Their game was, however, humoured, being taken in good spirits as the first few teetering steps of newborn foals being released into the world for the first time.

As he, after staying his welcome with the current prefects, made his rounds of the room in search of someone new to schmooze up to, he noticed that Andrew Flint and Jonathon Burke, both in their sixth year, were huddled in the corner, glancing around nervously as they exchanged heated whispers. Filled with curiosity about the topic that they had apparently determined to be so private that it required that much secrecy, he resolved himself to find out. Striding across the room as if he were doing nothing at all suspicious, he scoped out their surroundings. There wasn't much room for him to hide in close proximity to them, but there was a vacant armchair not too far out of hearing range, facing away from them, that he could easily sit in without arousing any suspicion. Fighting the urge to look towards his marks, he made his way to the seat and sat down with a relieved sigh that could convince almost anyone that he was merely resting sore legs and a drowsy mind. Holding his wand out of sight as he moved it in the familiar motion, he murmured the words for the Hearing Charm that his father had been sure to teach him a few weeks prior. The spell was a handy little thing designed to extend the caster's hearing in one direction only, while muffling sounds coming from all other directions; in this instance, it extended his hearing enough so that he was able to listen in to the conversation of interest. Leaning his head back so as to perfect the image of the exhausted – but still awake – first year, he let himself enjoy the fruits of his labour.

"I'm telling you we're going to have to make a decision," Burke was insisting, his tone nervous. "It's not going to just go away."

"I know, but I still don't think we need to worry about it yet. Renegade forces come and go, and my father said they're still in their early stages; we don't even know if he'll still be around by then. Besides, he's apparently very selective about followers; there's a good chance he won't even want us to be any more than unmarked grunts, anyway."

"Maybe so, but, now that our fathers have joined him, anything we do is going to be a statement; we can't stay neutral on this."

_But what is this?_ Lucius wondered. _Why haven't I heard about this group before? Do my parents know about it?_

"Why would we even want to stay neutral? He's fighting for _our_ rights. He's fighting to rid our world of mudblood scum and to protect pureblood society and customs in the face of dissenters like Albus Dumbledore. He's fighting for _us_. Why wouldn't we fight for him, too?"

"Don't get me wrong; I agree with him," Burke replied quickly. "He's definitely got the right idea of things. I just don't like its militant potential. My father told me that they want it to develop into a rebellion. Yet, while most people share _his_ ideals, there are enough influential people likely to hold out that it won't be an easy transition. What if they end up doing guerrilla missions? You know I'm pants at duelling and offensive magic; I'd be no good if it turned combative."

"Sometimes you can't be neutral; sometimes you're either for something or against it. This is going to be one of those times, Jonathon. If you're not sure where you stand, you'd better start working it out."

The sound of moving feet came from the corner, and Lucius quickly negated the spell. He looked up, trying to appear natural, as the older boys passed him. Burke, who appeared slightly shaky, nodded at him before continuing on his way, but Flint stopped at the sight of him.

"How are you enjoying Hogwarts so far?" he asked.

"It's alright. There hasn't been much to judge it on yet, but it's been fine overall."

"That's good to hear. If you have any problems, feel free to let one of us know so we can see if we can help you sort it out."

He didn't plan on needing their help – the main allure of going off to Hogwarts was to teach those spindly, wobbly little legs how to stand strong on their own, after all – but appreciated the offered beginnings of a coalition of sorts. "I'll keep that in mind."

"And send your father my regards."

As Flint made his way over to his friends, Lucius made his way back over to his new classmates. He could ponder this topic later; for now, he had to focus on winning this challenge.

_**November 1970** _

By the time he was in his fifth year, having assumed the role of Slytherin prefect and all that came with it, he was creating masterpieces with mere flicks of his sharp silver tongue. It had become as easy as eating. There was no doubt in anybody's mind that he was the embodiment of all the traits Slytherin House heralded; ambitious, cunning and pure of blood, with a sharp mind for politics and socialising. Few people _liked_ him, but almost everybody knew him to be a formidable and noteworthy wizard. His forte, however, was steering events and outcomes without becoming publicly attached to it. As much as it sometimes pained him, most of his artworks were presented anonymously; he had honed the skill of smiling and congratulating others while downplaying his own involvement. Everybody still knew he had extensive influence, but he hid the extent of his swaying power. His goal was not, after all, to be the Minister for Magic. To paraphrase that which he had once overheard Andrew Flint say of renegade forces, Ministers came and went like the tide as public opinion and circumstances changed. The men behind the scenes were the ones who outlasted them, the ones who weathered public backlashes, received private praise when things went well, and remained even as administrations changed. Being the Minister for Magic would give him the most temporary power, but it would not give him the most secure ongoing power; he had his sights set much higher.

What that meant, however, was that he often had to deal with less than proficient figureheads without giving away what he really thought of them. As he listened to Nathaniel Giovanni ramble on about his plans to get revenge against someone who had wronged him, Lucius couldn't help but think that it'd all be much easier if he just took charge after all. That way, at least, he wouldn't have to deal with incessant whinging and plans so poorly made a five-year-old could fault them.

"What do you think?" Giovanni, a third year Slytherin who had grown rather fond of asking him for political advice, inquired. Lucius appreciated the boy's wisdom in seeking feedback and guidance; it was a shame that that was all he could find to respect about him. The ideas themselves were generally half-formed and based on terrible premises and an even more abysmal understanding of how things worked. He would never make a particularly good strategist or ally; the only advantage to their arrangement was that Giovanni would one day number among the assembly of purebloods blindly following Lucius' instructions.

"It amazes me that someone your age could come up with such an idea," he commented with the upmost sincerity. "Truly, it does."

Giovanni puffed himself up like a peacock and beamed in obvious pleasure and unadulterated pride; that – his carelessness about even trying to conceal his true feelings – was another irksome failing of his. Lucius still had hopes of stamping _that_ flaw out, but they grew weaker and fainter every time the boy sought out his company. Lucius had once wondered whether the boy had bribed his way into Slytherin, but had quickly dismissed the notion; the boy's parents hadn't cared enough about his Sorting to organise that, and there was no way he would have been able to orchestrate it on his own. That little outcome was still one of life's greatest unsolved mysteries for him. "How old would you take me for?"

"It's hard to say. Certainly not thirteen, that's for sure. Then again, you're not striving to create plans reminiscent of a thirteen-year-old, are you? Your goal isn't to plateau, after all; you're always aiming higher, wanting better."

"Of course I am," he declared. "I'm aiming for plans that would outwit seventh years. I'll be the best strategist in Slytherin one day. Only after you leave, that is."

"Indeed, that _is_ a lofty goal. How about you run through your ideas one more time and we'll see where we can find opportunities for improvement?"

The kid – for, despite their small age gap, that was unmistakably how Lucius saw him – grinned at him before recounting his plan once again. That smile made it all worth it; not out of any form of sentimentality, of course, for Lucius couldn't care less about the boy's happiness, but rather out of the knowledge that each and every piece of correction or advice Lucius offered only further strengthened Giovanni's loyalty and devotion to him. Even the loyalty of an aggravating fool was better than nothing.

Fortunately, most of his future followers were nowhere near as annoyingly pathetic and insipid as Giovanni constantly proved himself to be. Crabbe and Goyle were dim-witted and slow, but at least they never aspired for more and knew enough to leave the planning to him, and the rest of his allied acquaintances were much more adept at matters of politics and juvenile espionage. They still served as canvases on which he could create his pictures, of course, but they were much more useful and, while they already had the beginnings of images etched into them and so were sometimes harder to manipulate into what he wanted them to become, they tended to make for more impressive results.

_**January-June 1971** _

As the school year progressed, everything continued to go marvellously for him. The future movers and shakers of the world flocked around him like magpies spying a shining gem of hope, and he continued to train them in obedience. His coup-de-grace was when his parents managed to secure him an advantageous betrothal to the handsome and pleasantly vapid Andromeda Black.

Their first meeting set the course for what was to come. He led the conversation and she was malleable and, as far as he could see, they were both perfectly content with the arrangement. The girl herself wasn't all that intriguing, but the dowry and influence she would bring to his estate certainly were. For all that Malfoys were esteemed and envied, the Blacks were at the pinnacle of pureblood families. Had the girl looked like a horse and acted like one of those shrewish heroines in the romance novels that were currently in vogue, she still would have made a good match; her beauty and pliability were merely appealing but ultimately decorative trappings in his eyes.

Of course, societal expectations dictated that they refrain from any unnecessary touching. While it made their meetings rather dull – her only real personal appeal came from her looks and her willingness to follow his lead, and there was only so much shallow talking he could partake in before he grow weary of it – he wasn't too concerned with the restrictions. They were what they were, and they didn't kept things simple between them. They met, they attended formal functions together, they chatted mindlessly about shallow topics that he cared nothing about, and then they left one another alone. He was sure that bringing physical intimacy into the mix would have had one of two unsavoury outcomes: either she refused or uncomfortably tolerated his advances, or she sought out his company more than was welcome. Either way, it was simpler for now to just not have to worry about it.

It was entirely possible that he would have thought otherwise had the contract demanded premarital fidelity. As it was, the only restriction was that both parties had to remain uncompromised and refrain from any relations that might jeopardise their eventual marriage. Its wording had been designed to prohibit any relationships – romantic or otherwise – that either party would disapprove of; contracts had recently started to shy away from explicitly prohibiting cheating when it had become apparent that individuals had different ideas of what that entailed, and had settled on the more generalised wording so that it also encompassed the realm of business associations or friendships. Technically, however, the new wording didn't ban affairs that were successfully hidden from the public eye or that the other party knew about and accepted.

And he had always been so very good at sneaking around.

While his proper little pureblood fiancée obeyed the rules and simpered at him without ever demanding anything more, he enjoyed himself with their half-blood classmates. Pureblood girls would have been preferable, given their greater inherent worth, but the thing that made them superior was the very thing that made it unacceptable; it just didn't _do_ to go about messing around with pureblood girls. They had betrothal contracts of their own and, while they were equally free to interpret its conditions as they saw fit, there would be a much higher risk of being discovered, and a much harsher penalty should someone realise what they were doing. His choice had thus been between waiting until he graduated or lowering his expectations, which had made for a very easy decision. As always, he safeguarded himself; the girls were all sworn to secrecy – _literally_ – and he always took precautions to ensure that his bloodline remained unsullied. His practice at discreteness well and truly paid off throughout that year, with no one – or, at least, no one who could talk about it – being any the wiser.

All in all, he was extremely happy with the arrangement.

_**August 1971** _

Since his initial exposure to the existence of the pureblood crusader, Lucius was constantly on the lookout for more information about him. Pureblood society had undeniably been weakened by the rise and influence of wizards such as, and most notably, Albus Dumbledore. Although the man perpetuated their customs and traditions in many ways, least of all through his connection to Nicholas Flamel, he shamelessly encouraged and enabled mudblood and half-breed defiance both in terms of the way he ran the school and the way he chose his teaching staff. The cause Burke and Flint had spoken of five years prior called to him. Unfortunately, there was no easy way of finding out exactly how he should go about answering that call. He didn't have a name to go by and, given his continuing to desire to remain relatively undetected and how irksome the idea of admitting they knew something he didn't was to him, he was loath to reveal his spying until he had exhausted all other options.

The trick was recognising when that time came.

Over the years, he'd had reason to believe that his father was also involved in the insurgent group. Abraxas Malfoy certainly agreed with their ideals and, if the likes of George Burke and Jim Flint were involved, would have been invited to participate. His reasoning was also more evidential than that. Little snippets of conversations overheard at doors or offhanded comments from guests who had quickly been shushed had hinted at his father's involvement in something that all involved thought would have the potential to change things drastically. And, every now and again, he would hear his father and his colleagues talk about _him_. Lucius still didn't know who he was, but the subtle way they always emphasised that pronoun in relation to certain subterfuges left no doubt in his mind that they were always referring to that same elusive man.

Eventually, he had resorted to asking his father directly. Terror and pride had never before warred in his father's expression to such an extreme extent as it did in that moment. Once his momentary lapse of composure passed, the older wizard had led his son to his desk and sat with him on the hard chairs. "Let it be," his father had ordered him, his tone brokering neither argument nor contention. "You mustn't investigate this, and you mustn't tell anybody you even suspect that something is going on. _Nobody must know._ Do I have your word that you won't?"

"Father – "

"Promise me."

"Yes. You have my word; I won't do either of those things."

"Good. All I can tell you at the moment is that I am comfortable with and proud of every group and organisation membership I have. One day, when you're of age, we can revisit this and similar topics. Until then, you're to live like you've never heard of it."

At least he had obtained that promise and, though indirectly, the knowledge that his father was indeed part of the group and that the reason Burke and Flint had been told of it while he hadn't was a matter of age rather than personal preference. "As far as I am aware," Lucius had said, "there are a number of things about society that need to be rectified, including the positions afforded to mud – _ahem,_ Muggle-borns – but nothing is currently being done about it."

"Good lad."

Now, on the day after his seventeenth birthday, he was determined to get the answers his father had denied him just over one and a half years prior. Standing outside his father's imposing study door inspired, for the first time in years, a feeling of abject nervousness. His father hadn't promised that he would tell him immediately, or even that he would tell him everything, merely that they could reopen the discussion; for all he knew, his father would decide that mere confirmation of such a group's existence and purpose was a satisfactory response to Lucius' questions. For all he knew, he might be _denied_ ; denied confirmation, denied answers, denied membership. If he were, he would certainly not repeat his promise of not investigating; or, at least, he didn't want to do so. Deep down, he knew that he would concede if his father demanded it, both out of respect for the man and out of the knowledge that his father always had good reasons for his decisions.

Still, he didn't want to suffer the disappointment of leaving intellectually empty-handed.

_The longer I wait…_

Resolving himself to action, he rapped his knuckles against the door. "Father?"

"Come in, Lucius."

Lucius obeyed the instruction, swinging the door open slowly and stepping through it into the study. The room was large and magnificent. Bookshelves holding well-kept ancient tomes, invaluable knickknacks collected from his time travelling, and Dark trinkets lining its walls and a striking mahogany desk sat in its centre, a tapestry displaying the Malfoy family tree exhibited prominently on the wall behind it. It wasn't the only such tapestry in the house, but it was certainly the most distinguished-looking, and it served to intimidate whomever entered the room by reminding them of exactly how illustrious their family history was. Even Lucius, who had lived in the manor his whole life and had the protection of said family, sometimes felt cowed by it; whenever he entered the room, however rare that was, it provided an unavoidable reminder of the weight of the expectations on his shoulders. Depending on the nature of his visit, it either emboldened him or it made him feel inadequate. Either way, it usually spurred him on to greater heights, either out of pride or out of desperation not to be seen as weak or lesser.

Today, it was a mix of both. He had done all that he possibly could to further their family's name over the years; no man could look at him and find him wanting as a son. As a consequently understandably proud member of such a family, he knew that there was no justifiable reason for his father to keep him ignorant for personal reasons. Any secret-keeping would be strictly due to need rather than perceived shortcomings. Still, it reminded him of the amount of power his father held; if his father requested he continue on in ignorance, he would have to do just that, for all that he desperately wanted answers and, ideally, directions for the quickest path to the nearest sign-up sheet.

Once the door was firmly closed behind him, he said, "You told me we could revisit the topic of the pureblood crusader after my seventeenth birthday."

"So that's what you're calling him these days."

Lucius fought a flush; the moniker had become so second nature to him since he first coined it that he had almost forgot it wasn't an official title. "It seemed appropriate," he said quietly.

"And, of course, you decided to come the day after," his father noted, observing him carefully. The younger Malfoy forced himself not to respond and was rewarded by a surprisingly sincere, "Your enthusiasm becomes you."

"The cause deserves nothing less."

"My apologies for not being able to answer your questions last time. The Dark Lord – or, as you would know him, the pureblood crusader – was adamant that his followers mustn't tell anybody about him until they are of age. Even now, you won't be able to join until you graduate. It's not the kind of thing one enters into lightly. Once you are in, you are in for life."

That threatening little proviso was unexpected, but it certainly wasn't a shock. It was reminiscent of the old ways and that kind of reconnection was, after all, what they were striving for. The prospect seemed positively medieval, which thrilled him. He felt like a prepubescent child playing with a borrowed wand, mesmerised and enthralled by a time or ability so far removed from his reality; he mightn't understand the particulars of that distant world, but he was determined to experience it. "I shouldn't imagine it was. This isn't just a fleeting fancy, Father. I've been anticipating this for years."

"Yes. This information is, naturally, not to be shared or discussed with anybody who doesn't already know it."

"Naturally."

"To be honest, there isn't much to tell you. We call ourselves the Death Eaters. Our aim is, as you have discerned, to promote pureblood rights and rid our society of the mudblood pandemic. The Dark Lord had an altercation with Albus Dumbledore in his youth and is aware that that prevents him from seizing power in conventional ways. The only path left to him is, therefore, a hostile takeover. We plan to obtain the allegiance of as many _true_ purebloods and, as required, half-bloods as we can – and by true, I mean the sort who have enough discernment to see past Dumbledore's lies. Some of them will be publicly linked with our group, while others will be working undercover at the Ministry, at Hogwarts, and at Gringotts. We will then utilise force to overcome any resistance Dumbledore or his precious mudbloods might muster and terrorise them into obedience."

It was everything he'd ever wanted, the most shining utopia he could envision. Nothing could even begin to compare to it. How could it? It was the manifestation of all of every ideal he'd ever possessed and would require every skill he'd ever developed.

And, if all went according to plan, he would soon be brushing shoulders with the future leader of the world. It was a heady prospect indeed. Having the Minister's ear was one thing; having the ear of a revolutionary usurper was another entirely. As he imagined such a world, all of his life goals and plans shifted ever so slightly yet, undoubtedly, irrevocably; same essence, similar execution, starkly different outcome.

"What can I do?"

"There is, simply put, not much for schoolboys to do at this stage. What _you_ can do is to continue as you are. Cultivate supporters. They will not necessarily be inducted into our ranks – and almost certainly won't enter the inner circle – but we need every loyal supporter and sympathiser we can get. You are uniquely positioned in that you have sway over your classmates in a way that we do not. We can teach our sons what's important and tell them to join us but the thing that will ultimately determine their value as followers is their attitudes. That is your domain. Lay the groundwork and be prepared in case you are asked to provide judgements of your certain classmates to the Dark Lord."

"I can do that."

His father gave him a broad, genuine smile. "I know you can. The number of times I've complimented you to the Dark Lord – well, it would not do your ego any good if I told you all the things I've said about you over the years."

"Thank you. I won't fail you."

Abraxas opened his desk drawer and pulled out a small silver lapel pin with green highlights. The metal was twisted into the shape of a snake prepared to strike. "This will identify you as a probable future ally," he informed his son as he handed it over to him.

Magic was infused within it; it didn't feel dark, but it was strong and distinctive nonetheless. Turning the cold metal over in his hand, Lucius noticed a letter etched into it: _V_.

"Those who have been told about it will have some variation of this. The insignia differs between pins, but the letter and the magic will remain constant for identification purposes. There is also an Identification Charm that the Dark Lord designed to interact specifically with the pins and provide further confirmation. It isn't vital that you use the spell at the moment as the pins are still relatively new, but doing so will become paramount if any of your uninvolved classmates decide to adopt it as a fashion statement and so unintentionally compromise their true purpose. I trust that you remember the condition that you may only discuss this with people who already know about it; _this_ is how you recognise those people." Abraxas pulled out his wand and Lucius, aware that his pause as a signal for him to do the same, copied the action. "The incantation is Cognosco and the motion is like so."

Lucius sounded out the word before mimicking the wand movement.

"I should get back to these charts," Abraxas said once he was satisfied with his son's progress. "Don't forget to wear that pin at all times from now on."

The pin was firmly attached to his robes before Lucius had even left the room.

_**June 1973** _

Shortly after they sat their N.E.W.T.s – indeed, the very day they sat their final exam – Andromeda Black disappeared from Hogsmeade. Their cohort had been granted permission for a supervised visit to select places in order to celebrate their newfound freedom, so the Slytherins assembled in the Three Broomsticks once their Herbology exam was over. The whole year were standing at the edge of life as they knew it, staring over the precipice into the murky, unfamiliar hinterland of post-school life. Things they had spent most of their young lives yearning for – adult responsibilities, marriage, independence – suddenly seemed daunting and much too close. Running the marathon for the edge had been easy; staring over it, flailing as they balanced on the final patch of land, was anything but. Among the uncertainty and confusion, Lucius spent the night socialising with his other lapel-pin-wearing friends. The future wasn't nearly as frightening for them; _they_ knew their path. Those things that suddenly terrified the others were mere footnotes to their own plans for power and grandeur.

When you were about to meet the future leader of the country – nay, of the world – in order to join a secret insurrectionary group agglomerated in order to bring him to supreme power, social niceties and rites of passage tended to seem like nothing more than petty entertainments designed to occupy the lives of lesser men.

The afternoon passed pleasantly into evening and even more pleasantly into night as Lucius' group, surrounded by charms to divert the attention of any potential onlookers and eavesdroppers, chatted and schemed and drank. Their merriment steadily increased as the night wore on, only ceasing when the professors declared that it was time to head back to the castle.

It was then that Andromeda's flight became known. She had purportedly excused herself to go to the bathroom a few hours prior but her friends, after noting her prolonged absence and starting a search, hadn't been able to find her there. Panicking, they had searched the area before informing Professor Yester and, through him, Dumbledore.

The school's wards had no recollection of readmitting her onto the grounds, and Dumbledore had been able to find a trace of her in Hogsmeade.

According to Cassandra Fawley, who – as Andromeda's best friend – had been incredibly distraught, she'd been trying to find her handkerchief when she found a note in her pocket. It, with handwriting that was unmistakably Andromeda's, spoke of running away with a Muggle-born lover. The prevailing theory was that Andromeda, assuming that the note would be noticed earlier, had slipped it into her friend's pocket before sneaking away. Cassandra had immediately informed the professors of the development and they had called the search off.

Lucius, who had been blissfully hidden away by charms throughout all of this rigmarole, was not informed of any of this until much later.

The first rumours reached his ear when he was already back in the common room, having reconvened with his pin-wearing classmates in a quiet corner of the room. The seventh year girls were, to his surprise, not in attendance. It wasn't overly shocking, however; he couldn't imagine anyone having a reason not to make the most out of that night, but pureblood girls tended to have their own peculiar, delicate way of viewing things, and he supposed that this was just one of those things.

Younger students all around the room were furiously whispering to one another. It, too, was abnormal without being a red flag in and of itself; in practice, it was more irritating than anything else. His housemates were usually much more refined than that; while a little excitement in light of the day's events was understandable, this much poorly concealed chatter was, in his opinion, simply disgraceful.

"I wonder when they'll approach us," Elliot Nott said. "And how."

"And who," Rodolphus Lestrange added. "Whether it'll be our fathers or strangers or _him_."

"Best to treat anyone as if they're him just in case," Elliot reasoned.

Lucius was about to comment on that thought when he all the whispering suddenly stopped. Looking up curiously, he noticed that everyone's gazes were focused in the same direction; they were all locked on Narcissa Black, who had just entered the room. That was strange; out of all of the people who the gossiping might have featured, she was one of the least likely contenders. What was even stranger was that a number of students glanced towards him with no small amount of anticipation.

"What's going on?" Elliot asked.

"That's what I'm going to find out," Lucius muttered as Narcissa, too, glanced in his direction, before walking up the stairs without any further hesitation.

In the wake of her departure, he made his way over to the male sixth year prefect, George Kearney, who was playing a game of Gobstones with a friend near the fire. "Do you mind if I borrow Kearney for a few minutes, Gibbs?"

"Not at all. He's thrashing me, so I could use the break."

"Good. Let's go for a walk outside."

Game thus abandoned, Lucius and Kearney left the common room without another word. Neither of them spoke until they were safely concealed in a dark alcove just outside of the entrance, close enough to be able to see if anyone else followed them out without being visible from any stragglers or patrolling authorities.

"It seems that something happened while we were in Hogsmeade," Lucius said, his tone carefully neutral and only slightly undercut by their environment. "Would you care to enlighten me as to what it was?"

"No one's told you," Kearney said, sounding shocked, and it's only the fact that he's phrased it as a sentence rather than a question that keeps Lucius from berating him for pointlessnes. "I – I don't know how to say this, but Andromeda Black ran away from the Three Broomsticks. She apparently eloped with a Hufflepuff mudblood, Edward Tonks."

"Excuse me?"

"They've apparently been seeing one another secretly for a while now. _Lovers,_ apparently – like they were pathetic Muggles running around screwing one another and _feeling_ things."

"You're certain about this."

"Her friends have confirmed it. She apparently slipped out under the pretence that she was going to the loo and, after launching a search party for her, Cassandra Fawley found a note saying she had eloped."

"Thank you for letting me know. You might as well return to the common room and finish thrashing Gibbs at Gobstones."

"Are you sure – ?"

"Yes, I am."

The younger wizard left for the common room, but Lucius remained in the alcove. He was in shock; how could Andromeda Black, the delicate, lifeless little pureblood girl who was one of the closest things to a princess their country had, have done such a thing? How could she have lowered herself and besmirched her name by both canoodling with a mudblood _and_ , worse still, by marrying him? How could she have degraded _his_ and _his_ family's reputation by slighting him in such a public manner? And how on _Earth_ had she gotten this all past him?

_**July 1973** _

Fortunately, despite the girl's horrid taste in breaking off her betrothal to elope with her little mudblood mistake, the public slight and subsequent scandal in no way harmed his own social standing. In fact, it didn't harm him at all; he hadn't felt any real affection for the girl at all and, given the extent of her disgrace, the public's focus was on her flightiness and shame rather than on trying to find inadequacy or some other fault on his part. Besides, it had also benefited him politically; his parents had been able to use the grievance as leverage to arrange an even more advantageous marriage for him to her older and more beautiful, albeit less vapid, younger sister Narcissa. The dowry would be larger and the contract more lenient as, after all, the Blacks didn't want to be known to have slighted the Malfoy heir twice; they might be politically untouchable, but even they couldn't get away with everything. The only semblance of a downside was the fact that the wedding would, unfortunately, have to be delayed until she too had finished her N.E.W.T.s, but even that had a silver lining; it gave him two years to focus solely on ingratiating himself with the Dark Lord instead of having to concern himself with her as well.

Shortly after the new betrothal contract was finalised, he had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of the so-called Dark Lord, who he still, in the secrecy of his own mind, thought of as the pureblood crusader. Finally meeting the man he had idolised for so long was simultaneously daunting and exhilarating. The Dark Lord was almost exactly what Lucius thought a revolutionary should be like; handsome, politically astute, full of an energetic zeal that made him seem many years younger than he looked, wildly intelligent, and possessing an acerbic wit that made even Lucius envious.

And, to Lucius' great pleasure, his request for membership was granted that very same day. The Dark Lord proceeded to brand him with the Dark Mark, an inner circle version of what he'd given the loyal sons of his followers to wear while they were still at Hogwarts. With the warning that succumbing to the pain might mean death still ringing in his ears, Lucius eagerly extended his forearm to the mysterious wizard. The Marking burned like nothing he'd ever felt before, burned until he almost wished he'd never agreed to undergo it in the first place, but he held on throughout it. Every time he felt his control slipping, he reminded himself of the reason he was doing it before laboriously putting the distracted pieces of his concentration back together again. He would _not_ succumb to the pain. He _would_ make it through this.

When the Dark Lord stepped away, his work complete, Lucius dropped to the ground with his left forearm held tightly by his right hand. Footsteps sounded in the background, but faltered and ceased as the pureblood crusader said unceremoniously, "Stay where you are. He must do this by himself."

After what he later discovered was an hour later, he, steeling himself against the pain, forced himself to stand up with his arms hanging loosely by his sides so as to conceal the extent of the prolonged agony. He might not have been able to respond to the challenge in the Dark Lord's words as quickly as he would have liked, but he was determined to meet it eventually.

"How are you feeling?" their leader asked him, his eyes meeting Lucius'.

"Proud," Lucius replied in what sounded rather like a grunt. "I'm proud to finally be a Death Eater."

"He's telling the truth," the Dark Lord remarked with a tone of cool interest.

"Very well. Abraxas, you may take him home. Have him rest and let me know when he's up to taking visitors."

Lucius was dimly aware of his father's presence as Abraxas put his arm through his and Apparated both of them to the ornate front doorstep of Malfoy Manor. The delirium was starting to catch up with him, dragging him back into the depths of agony he'd been exposed to earlier even as his father pulled him into the bathroom and then, after a house-elf had bathed his semi-catatonic body, to his bedroom.

After that, Lucius lost consciousness for a few days. When he came to, blood was still seeping out of his freshly bandaged and horribly aching arm and his head was woozy from the pain and lack of nourishment. He stayed alert only long enough to scoff down some food and water, and then slipped into a deep sleep. In his dreams, he saw death and decay and other such debaucheries battle and philosophise and dance around the ruins in orange tutus. He got some rest, but it was always, always a restless one. The next morning, he awoke properly, but all of the agony came rushing back in like a wave eager to re-join its lover, the shore.

The burning sensation lingered long after the Dark Lord had technically finished branding him.

His father informed the Dark Lord as soon as Lucius had recuperated enough to have the strength to go about his day as normal. The man called upon the manor a few hours later to discuss Lucius' duties – at the moment, recruiting and extending his reach as far as he could, but possibly joining in on raids once that became a thing they did – and the future of the other lapel-pin-wearing Slytherins from his year. At Lucius' recommendation, all but Elliot Nott had been initiated into the marked inner circle. Elliot was the youngest son in his family and so didn't have the same political responsibilities of the likes of Lucius Malfoy; as such, he had the potential to be used in a wider variety of ways. While Elliot was more than suited to being a Death Eater, the Dark Lord decided that it would be better to position him in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement so that he could use his knack for legalese to greater benefit them; as certain of the higher up positions in that Department required at least the façade of political neutrality, it was safer for Elliot to remain unmarked for the time being.

All in all, the transition from being an arrogant, indolent pureblood schoolboy to being a self-important, bigoted Death Eater was a natural and, to him, gratifying one.

_**September 1975** _

They were wed a few months after Narcissa Black graduated from Hogwarts. Lucius had wanted it to be earlier so that he would have an excuse to throw a propaganda event masquerading as a celebratory ball; the Death Eaters plans were progressing wonderfully, but they needed new ways of reaching people. The time for intimidation was fast approaching, and the Dark Lord was determined to acquire as many willing supporters as possible before that point. The purpose of this was twofold: on one hand, he wanted to build up the faction of people that aggressively believed in pureblood politics so as to ensure their continued support; on the other, he wanted to recruit those who might be uncomfortable with violence before the bloodshed started so he could then blackmail them into remaining. The plans for Malfoy Manor, however, had had to wait; Narcissa had formally requested that she be involved in the wedding planning, which, regrettably, had meant that the wedding couldn't be earlier in the year without jeopardising her exam study. While he was apathetic about her results on a personal level, both families would appear better should she go well, so he had accepted her entreaty. His decision had worked in their favour; she had gone extremely well – surprisingly so, in his opinion; while she was less vapid than her sister, he hadn't been aware of quite how intelligent she was – and had been grateful that he had let her delay it. He was aware that a significant portion of her docility on the issue was born from the knowledge of how he had been jilted last time, but it had done nothing to keep his ego from being flattered by the sweet compliments she'd given as she thanked him. His only hope was that, pretence or not, she was as compliant in bed as she was outside of it.

He would find that out for himself after the wedding, which was set for late September. As green leaves changed colour and flaked away from their erstwhile homes, she planned and he plotted. For the most part, they left one another alone; she seemed to be fully absorbed in planning the wedding and brainstorming ideas for the ball that he had suggested to her, and he was fully immersed with learning more about maintaining the estate and fulfilling his Death Eater duties.

They were so immersed in their separate preparations that it felt like the wedding was, one day, just suddenly upon them. He made the decision to forgo a typical bachelor's party and instead have a night of revelry and murder with his Death Eater friends; they had progressed to attacking isolated Muggle villages when the mood struck them as long as there was no way to trace the events back to them. For that night, they made their way through a village in Italy, having their fun and then razing it to the ground behind them.

His wedding was the week after that night. As he stood at the front of the church, his appearance a model of respectability and propriety, none but those who had been involved would have been able to guess at his secret proclivities. His portion of the wedding party – namely, Elliot Nott, Rodolphus Lestrange and Alexander Parkinson – were all in a similar situation, putting on equally reputable fronts to hide their illegal deeds. His favourite part, however, was the knowledge that the Dark Lord himself was sitting, disguised, somewhere in the pews.

The wedding and reception both went off without a hitch. The decorations and clothing were all gorgeous and tasteful, and the banquet rivalled those served at Hogwarts. Narcissa looked exceptionally beautiful and picturesque, and Lucius would have been glad that Andromeda had run out on him for that moment alone.

That night, he determined that Narcissa was in fact as amenable in bed as he had hoped. She was the most inexperienced witch he had ever been with, but that, in her case, manifested in obedient pliability rather than in nervousness or fear.

-m-

Unbeknownst to Narcissa, who was yet to learn about his involvement in the group, he had quickly become one of the Dark Lord's most valued supporters. The older Death Eaters – including his father – were much wiser and more experienced than him, to be sure. Yet the wizarding world was often torn between valuing wise older men with rich pasts and charismatic youth with shining futures. Despite being more than capable of anything the Dark Lord asked of them, most of the older Death Eaters had a myriad of other responsibilities and commitments seeking their time and attention and so were less able to adapt their schedules to fit missions or their known personalities. Lucius was therefore asked to complete tasks at short notice or that required a wizard who had, at least tenuously, grounds for plausible deniability of any 'wrongdoings' – as Dumbledore would see them – in relation to blood supremacy.

The pinnacle of his power and influence was when the Dark Lord entrusted him with the safekeeping of an old, magically potent leather diary. At first, he was unimpressed with the task; it seemed like the sort of mindless drivel that any Death Eater grunt could do, not the kind of task that should be given to one of the most respected members of the Dark Lord's inner circle. Yet disobedience was not an option – it never was in their happy little group – and so he had no choice but to accept the duty with as much grace and gratitude as he could muster up the power to feign. When he first held the diary in his hands, however, he realised that it wasn't the throwaway task he had first assumed. The Dark magic emanating from that small bound book was unmistakeable; he had no idea what it was, but he knew that it was immensely powerful, and that it was the central brushstroke of the most prominent masterpiece he'd ever created.

Realising that having the task bestowed upon him was, in fact, a great compliment, his first thought was to display the diary in a prominent position in his library. After all, where else should such a tome go? Historically, Malfoys had always had a knack for slithering their way into the ears of political leaders and then hiding there, unnoticed and out of sight, while playing them like master puppeteers unleashed upon brand new puppets. While their preference had always been to conceal the extent of their political reach, however, it never hurt to display little tokens of their influence where people could see them; it was a rather effective way of keeping guests or potential business partners in their place. And Lucius was so very much a Malfoy; he and his father had exchanged a Minister for a Dark Lord, and they both knew that the latter was much more observant about matters of government than the former, but the urge was still undeniably present.

Careful consideration, and Narcissa's bashful remark that she wouldn't feel comfortable being in the library with something that forcefully Dark in there, eventually served to change his mind. His wife's entreaty didn't sway him in and of itself, of course; it merely gave him a reason to take pause and reconsider the advisability of the plan. The Dark Lord had, after all, given it to him for the express purpose of it being carefully hidden away where it could never be stolen; he would have hardly been happy had he then seen it displayed in such an obvious position, even if it was protected by a myriad of wards and spells. Besides, it wouldn't do for someone to see it and realise the kind of thing Lucius was dabbling around in.

Instead, Lucius hid it in a dusty old box that he stashed in the darkest corner of his heavily warded cellar. Now, it had both the actuality and appearance of security. No one, not even Narcissa, knew its location; she was merely coolly informed that the library was once again accessible to her.

The matter was thus summarily put to rest, and Lucius was sure to put it out of his mind in order to prevent anyone discovering it through Legilimency. His Occlumency shields were highly proficient, but he was determined to do his set task well.

Nobody other than Lucius or the Dark Lord themselves would ever find that diary.

_**5 June 1980** _

Lucius sat as still as a stone outside in the chair he occupied outside his wife's hospital room. Healers and patients frequently passed him, their concerns and troubles clearly written all over his body for him and any over idle waiters to see. Usually, he wouldn't have cared less about any of them, but, in that moment, he was grasping at straws to keep himself occupied. The wait had gone on for hours, and he was starting to wonder whether the baby would be born that night after all. It certainly seemed like he didn't want to come out yet.

His mind wandered until he, utterly bored and now quite hungry, decided to find food. He knew from past experience that he disliked the food served in the food court, so he called Dobby in order and, when the strange misshapen little creature appeared before him, requested that the house-elves make and bring him a small selection of food and have more ready for their return. His meal arrived an hour later and he took it outside to eat, informing the reception desk of his destination on his way out in case the baby was born while he was gone.

To his disappointment, it wasn't, and he returned to that same old seat in that same old corridor.

Narcissa's mother was in there with her and the rest of her family was waiting somewhere in the hospital as well, but, after the first four hours, they had decided to wander around in order to occupy and distract themselves. He had decided not to go with them – as a show of solidarity with his wife and out of a desire not to spend more time in Bellatrix's presence than necessary. The older girl had, after hours being seduced and ultimately broken by the Dark Lord until her mind was as crazy as it was brilliant, also been inducted into the Death Eater ranks. She had been able to keep her new allegiance hidden from her family until then, but Lucius knew that it wouldn't be long until they realised that her dark cackle and chilling way of viewing things weren't just a fleeting phase. It was worse when Lucius or other Death Eaters were around; she liked to drop little hints and watch her family interpret them much differently, much more innocently, than they were meant. They had not yet picked up on the true meaning of any of the clues – at most, they thought that Bellatrix's marriage to Rodolphus was at fault – but Lucius felt uncomfortable when pelted with her sly remarks and intense gaze when non-Death Eaters were right there as well.

He didn't know how long he spent there, staring at the walls with his eyes while his mind stared at something faraway and much more sinister.

Finally, his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a healer saying his name. "Mr Malfoy," she said again, "congratulations on the birth of a beautiful baby boy."

"Can I go in now?" he asked. Technically, his absence from the room hadn't been all his doing; he was much more comfortable not watching the process, but he would have gone in if it had been expected of him. However, tradition dictated that pureblood wizards not be present for childbirth, and Narcissa had been more than happy to observe that custom. "And are they both well?"

"Yes," the healer replied. "There were no complications. They're ready for you now."

Without another word, Lucius walked into the largest birthing room the hospital had available. His wife sat up, exhausted, in the bed, her hair plastered to her face with sweat and her face pale from exertion. A wailing baby was clasped against her chest as she tried to soothe its cries. Her mother sat primly by the bedside, her hands resting on her lap. Lucius neared the bed and peered down at the little pink baby in his wife's arms.

His son. _Draco._

Ingratiating himself with the Dark Lord enough to be trusted with the safekeeping of the wizard's diary might be his greatest masterpiece, but he had a feeling that raising this little boy would be his favourite.

_**31 October 1981** _

A raid was planned for the Halloween of the year Draco had his first birthday. It seemed like the perfect time for it. One of the half-bloods had recalled the myths Muggles had about that night and the way they dressed up like monsters, stayed out late, and celebrated the idea of being something they're not. It was practically _begging_ them to make use of the day to strike real fear in their hearts. Death Eater garb wouldn't look out of place on such a day, and they could use the celebration symbolising difference to put the swine firmly back in their place – dead or scared. Furthermore, it was the night the Dark Lord planned to kill his only real threat in the form of the baby the prophecy predicted might one day have the ability to slay him. The Dark Lord was unavailable for the night, of course, but it seemed fitting for his followers to be out celebrating their cause while he and Peter Pettigrew, whom he wanted by his side that night for purely symbolic and sadistic reasons, did their work with at the Potters' precious little hidey-hole of a home.

Part of Lucius wished that he were there too. It was such a momentous occasion that it was almost impossible not to want to be involved. This would be the night the Dark Lord felled his only real foe; how could any true supporter of his not long to be there to see it? Bellatrix certainly did; her disappointment at being excluded from the proceedings had been apparent to all. Their presence would have been superfluous, however. The Dark Lord was more than capable of taking out the three on his own, and having anyone else present in the house would have only served to diminish his claim to power.

The unneeded Death Eaters left for their expedition as soon as dusk fell. Donning the familiar billowing robes and cold, rigid mask was, as always, immensely freeing; he could do whatever he wanted while in the gear, as if 'Lucius Malfoy' had disappeared and the being that was left was a mere spectre in a world in which nothing and no one could touch him but he could touch them. The assembly Apparated away to their respective destinations; their numbers had grown so much that there was never enough to do if they didn't split up. Lucius was heading for a small fishing town that Yaxley had scoped out in the preceding weeks; he had found substantial evidence of the fact that the residents were preparing to celebrate Halloween and had determined the places that would be the most populated on the night.

Lucius' face, hidden behind his mask, scrunched up in distaste as he was hit with the stench of dead fish. A river ran alongside the cobbled street, and the bones – heads and tails still attached – of fishermen's bounties rested in its shallows. "Not very hygienic," he commented.

"What's why we're here, isn't it?" Elliot pointed out. "They're lesser in every way except for sheer force of numbers."

"Oh, look," Rodolphus said, his voice chilling in its pretence of casual observation, "there's one of them now."

Bellatrix hooted with glee. The teenager looked over at them reflexively. She didn't seem to be able to tell whether or not she should be afraid of them; it _was_ Halloween, so dressing up was normal, but their clothing looked very real. "Dressed like a cat, too; whiskers and all! Well, if she thinks she's an animal, who are we to disagree? We might as well treat her like one." Raising her voice so that the girl could hear her, she said mockingly, "Here, kitty, kitty. Come here so we can pet you."

That, apparently, decided it for her; after one more glance in their direction, she hastened towards the nearest set of shops, trying to find other people for protection. Of course, they didn't care about staying unnoticed.

"I want that one," Rodolphus' older brother said.

The chase was on.

Unbeknownst to them, their celebration was premature. As they ravaged their way through the town, burning and pillaging and laughing as Muggle writhed under curses they didn't understand, the Dark Lord was making his way through the little house in Godric's Hollow. They were all so lost to the world that, when their marks burned, they misinterpreted its meaning. When the Dark Lord pointed his wand at Harry Potter and his own spell bounce back at him, and their marks sent waves of agony rippling through them, they saw it as a cry of triumph and celebrated all the harder.

_**January 1982** _

The aftermath of the Dark Lord's fall had been cruel to Lucius. It had almost crippled him, politically and socially. The ensuing months were spent convincing everyone he came across that he had merely been under the Imperius Curse the whole time. How, or so he wanted them to think, would someone who loved his son so much have ever willingly done something that would tear other children's parents away from them? How, they were to ask, would someone who was so publicly respectful of and devoted to his wife have ever willingly engaged in an organisation that raped and killed women for fun? _How,_ he made them wonder, could anyone really believe that Lucius Malfoy had done all of that of his own free will?

Still, the period was the closest he had ever come to true powerlessness. Old friends were cautious of vouching for him lest his cover fall through and they be thrown into the public spotlight as well. Colleagues and allies were too busy rebuilding their own reputations to be able to provide him the support to which he was accustomed. No one wanted it to be known that he had their ear in case their campaign was ruined as a result of lingering public animosity. Narcissa, who had discovered his allegiance months prior and was now trying her best to distance them from the fallout, refused to talk to him. And his son just wouldn't stop crying.

But he was determined to make it through this period and rebuild his reputation once again. And, all the while, the old leather journal lay hidden away in his cellar; a forgotten masterpiece just waiting to one day be revisited.

**Author's Note:**

> Ugh, I've never hated a POV character more. Writing his elitism and casual sexism was painful, and the fact that it got easier over time is more than a little disconcerting. This was going to be a two-shot but the mindset is too disturbing to revisit to that extent anytime soon, so that's unlikely to happen. However, I wrote Andromeda's side of things in a story called Black is Slimming and will be uploading it once it's betaed. If you're interested, keep an eye out for it; I promise she's nowhere near as vapid as Lucius makes her out to be.


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